The Art of Getting Stared At (12 page)

Lexi runs to catch up. “Slow down!”

But I keep up the pace. I need to get to math early and get a seat in the far left corner so when the teacher insists I take off my hat, the worst spot faces the window and not the rest of the class.

“What is
up
with you? First you take my head off and now you're practically sprinting down the hall. Are you PMSing or what?”

I have to tell her. I take a deep breath. “Kim and I had a huge fight last night about me not staying with them.” I'm turning into such a liar. What's scary is how easy it is. “I can't stay with Harper this month. I can't stay with you next month either.”

“That's bogus.”

I shrug. “Family peace and all that.”

“I'll get my mom to call Kim. I'm sure she can—”

A frisson of alarm ripples down my spine. “No, no, don't do that. I'll talk to Kim and Dad again in a few days.”

“If you're sure,” Lexi says.

“I'm sure.” What I'm sure of is that a week will give me time to come up with another excuse. Because I can't stay with Lexi or Harper or anyone else. Not when my hair is such a mess.

San Francisco's Embarcadero area stretches for blocks along the city's waterfront, all the way from Fisherman's Wharf past the ferry building at the foot of Market towards AT&T Park. The funky mix of working piers, restaurants, and stores always draws a crowd.

“I guess we could shoot on the street here,” Isaac says after he parks his van and we wait at the corner for one of the antique green trolley cars to pass. We're surrounded by people speaking English, Spanish, and a few languages I don't recognize. They all seem to be heading for the same place we are: the historic ferry building, a hub for both tourists and commuters catching one of the ferries to Sausalito or Oakland. “But shooting out back would probably be quieter,” he adds.

Quieter is good. “I'm okay with that.”

“Then let's cut through the terminal.”

Palm trees rustle in the breeze as we cross the street and head for the white clock tower above the long, graceful building. As we get close, I see our reflection in the glass doors. My heart trampolines. I tell myself I'm checking my hair, making sure my spots are covered, but really, I am staring at us, walking side by side. Walking together.

We are a study in contrasts. Isaac in jeans and a T-shirt, tall and smiling with the camcorder hoisted on his shoulder, his dreads a dark frame to his dark skin. Me: shorter, paler, serious. A shadow of a person beside him, my hair pulled back and hidden under my new hat. So not his type.

Especially not now.

“Cool hat,” he says when he catches me looking.

Is that sincerity, flattery, or Voice Man fakeness? Who knows? This
is
Isaac and I
am
female. “Thanks.” I quickly change the subject. “By the way, Lexi says her boyfriend, Miles, can shoot B roll for the laughter flash mob. I confirmed it with him last night. And the prof at the University of San Francisco agreed to talk to us too.”

“Excellent.”

Inside the marketplace, we walk past stores, kiosks, and restaurants, weaving around people gawking at the beautiful marble archways and stunning arched ceiling. Near the back door, a little girl carrying a pink ice cream almost plows into my legs. “Watch out!” Isaac grabs my shoulder and steers me out of the way just in time.

But he doesn't drop his arm, and I want him to only I don't want him to, so I pretend the fluttery feeling in my head is normal and the press of his hip against mine is a regular thing.

Because I want it to be. Which is stupid weird ridiculous.

The salty tang of sea air is cool against my cheeks when we walk outside behind the building. Here, on the water side, a large, paved plaza overlooks the Bay. I spot a couple of sailboats in the distance. Somewhere in the water below us, sea lions bellow. Isaac grins. “Well, except for the wildlife, it'll be quieter.” He stares across the plaza. “But there's lots of room and the market won't be here when we shoot.”

It is today. People are lined up at stalls selling produce and sweets and savoury snacks. We make our way past a fruit stand loaded with apples and pears to a bench overlooking the water. I wait for him to drop his arm from my shoulder but he doesn't. Instead he looks at me and asks, “What do you think?”

That God gave you too much charm. That for the first time in a long time, I want to be pretty and that's just not who I am.

I ease away from him. “It could work.” My hat hits his shoulder and goes sideways. I quickly straighten it. “As long as we avoid the loading areas for the ferries, we should be okay.”

We wander around for the next fifteen minutes, looking
at shooting angles, camera locations, and traffic flow. My tension ramps up with each decision. I cannot believe I've gotten myself into this. By the time we decide on a spot where Lexi and I will stand, and the spots where Isaac and Miles will shoot, I am mute.

He notices. “It'll be okay.” He gives my arm a casual squeeze. My heart does a not-so-casual flip. “You'll do great.”

For a minute I almost believe him. But when he pulls the camcorder from its case, I snap back to reality. He's not filming me now is he? “What are you doing?”

“Taking some crowd shots for practice.” He pans a group of tourists being led by a man holding a massive orange umbrella. “So I can get a handle on how the camera feels before we get to the zoo.”

“We have to be discreet when we're shooting people, remember.”

“As long as we limit the footage to twenty seconds or less, Fisher says we're fine.”

I wander away and let him do his thing. Five minutes later, I'm back. “Let's go.”

“One sec. I'm getting some good stuff.”

I look past his shoulder to see what he's filming and I am horrified. “Stop!” I jab him with my elbow. “You can't shoot
them
.”

He's filming a group of deaf students. Their hands are flying; their lips silently form words no one can hear. One of the girls, a petite, black-haired beauty, is almost doubled over with laughter.

Silent laughter.

“Why? Because there's no sound?”

“Not that,” I hiss. “Sound can be dubbed. Just stop, okay? It's not fair.”

He lowers the camera. “What's not fair?”

Why is he looking at me like that? “I dunno. For one thing, you haven't asked them. And it seems ... invasive almost.”

“So it's okay to get random laughter shots from hearing people but not deaf ones?”

“I guess.” His scrutiny is making me uncomfortable. “Something like that.”

He switches the camera off. “They don't want special treatment. Trust me.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“My brother's deaf.”

I want the ground to crack open and swallow me whole. “I'm sorry.”

He raises an eyebrow. “For what?”

When I don't answer, he picks up the camcorder case. “Come on, let's go for lunch.”

Wild Wedge is a small, hole-in-the-wall place six blocks from the zoo. It has four tables, a counter with half a dozen stools, and a takeout window. Isaac says they make the best pizza in the Lake Merced area and pretty good cappuccino too. Judging by the line at the takeout window and the barista going crazy at the milk steamer in the corner, I believe him.

We get the last two stools at the counter. After the server takes our order, I unwrap my sandwich. “Is that roast beef on sourdough?” Isaac asks.

“Yeah.” I'm not sure whether red meat is good or bad right now but we were out of peanut butter and it was my only choice.

Isaac is practically drooling.

I start to laugh. “What? Can't you wait for the pizza?”

“When there's roast beef in front of me?”

“Here.” I push my untouched half towards him. “Take it.”

“You sure?” But he has already picked it up.

“Yeah. If I'm still hungry, I'll have a slice of your pizza.” The savoury smell of cheese and tomato sauce is killing me, except he ordered the carnivore special with double cheese, extra meat, and no veggies and that just
might
kill me. Not to mention that greasy junk food is a definite no-no. Sufferers and experts alike are unanimous on that.

“My mom and my two sisters turned vegetarian two years ago and our house has been a meat-free zone ever since.” He stuffs the sandwich into his mouth. One bite and it's half gone.

“What about your dad?”

“He's a jazz musician and only home sporadically. Me and Jonas go out for steak at least once a week.”

“Jonas?”

“My little brother.”

Surprise flutters through me. Not that he likes steak or has two sisters, although both are news to me. But that he takes his brother out. Somehow that doesn't jive with the irresponsible, flirtatious guy I know.

“How old is he?”

“Twelve.” He wipes a trace of mustard from his lips. “He's the baby of the family. With the girls in the middle and my dad on the road, we have to stick together.” He smiles.

“It must be hard with him—” I hesitate.

“Being deaf?”

I nod and bite into my sandwich.

He shrugs. “It is what it is. Deaf people don't consider themselves disabled. They say they're having a different human experience.”

A memory surfaces. “That was the theme of
See What I'm Saying
. You've seen that film, right?”

He shakes his head. “No.”

“Oh my God!” I almost choke on a piece of roast beef. I swallow and say, “It was a
New York Times
critics pick. It won a pile of awards. It's about four deaf entertainers and one of them is a drummer with this band called Beethoven's Nightmare.” I fill him in on a few of the highlights, getting more and more excited as I recall the inspirational film.

“I can't believe you were upset about me filming those deaf kids when you know all about deaf culture.”

Awkward
. I shift on the stool. “I don't, really. I saw one film, that's all. And I probably watch a dozen films a month, more for the production values than anything. But
See What I'm Saying
was special. Seriously!” I grab his arm. “You have to watch it. It was amazing!”

“You're amazing.”

I drop his arm like it's radioactive. “Right, that's me.” I giggle. “Sloane Kendrick, Ms. Amazing.” I stuff my sandwich into my mouth.

“It's true. You know a pile of cool trivia. You don't follow the crowd. You're passionate about film. I like that.”

At least he didn't say he liked my mind. “And you like my roast beef sandwich,” I tease.

He wipes the crumbs from his fingers. “Yeah, that too.”

“Excuse me.” A voice from behind interrupts. “Aren't you The Voice?”

We swivel on our stools at the same time and I end up pinned between Isaac's long legs. I wiggle to try and free myself but he doesn't notice. He doesn't move either. He's too busy smiling
that
smile at the girl in front of us.

“That's me,” he says.

“I thought so. I recognized you from that commercial you did for those dirt bikes.” The bangles on her wrist jangle as she digs through her straw bag. She is wearing a mint green halter dress and black flip-flops. Tiny yellow daisies are painted on her toenails. “Could you give me your autograph? My little brother loves that commercial.”

Isaac's smile deepens. “Glad to hear it. I'd be happy to.”

He sounds so smooth. Practiced. And old. Like he's thirty-five or something. Part of me wants to look away but the other part of me is entranced. The guy who was chowing down on my roast beef sandwich and talking about his siblings is gone. The Voice is back. And in major flirt mode.

She produces a creased piece of paper and pen. “Sorry, but it's all I've got.” She is angelically pretty with large, blue eyes, delicate features and Rapunzel-length blonde hair. Lucky, lucky her.